We're in Trouble by Christopher Coake

where the lights were bad, the floors and walls stained. As I climbed I thought about how little I knew of him, how seedy this place was, how I might be walking into danger. I followed his trim shape pastthe flickering bare bulbs on the landings, and listened to him jingle his keys, and I felt a thrill.
    But that was the girl I was then.
    When he unlocked the door and turned on the lights, I didn’t understand at first what I saw. His flat was an attic room, with a sloped ceiling. A very small place. And all the walls and the ceiling were covered in naked plywood, and jutting everywhere from the wood were small, oddly shaped protrusions, in many different colors. Here and there, hanging from clips, were straps, loops of rope, collections of odd metal implements and tools. In one corner was a weight bench, and in the center of the floor was a mattress and a grimy tangle of sheets. It all smelled strongly of wood and sweat. I had never seen a climbing wall—I could only think that Jozef was a pervert, a sadist. My stomach did loops.
    But Jozef looked chagrined, and said, Now you know my secret.
    What is all this? I asked him.
    He looked at me strangely.
    I am a climber, he said. A mountaineer. My brother and I climb in the Himalayas. I train here. He smiled. These are my rocks.
    I walked into the room and touched the walls, the plywood and the smooth nylon straps, the knobby holds. Some were rough and felt like stone; some seemed polished down by use.
    I said, Why didn’t you tell me?
    He looked at his feet, and said, Women are sometimes strange about it. I like you, and didn’t want anything to change between us. It was stupid of me.
    I wish you’d told me.
    He blushed, and said, I know. I’ve been a coward.
    I liked that he blushed.
    I asked, Are you afraid of me?
    He nodded and then looked me in the eye.
    You put me in knots, he said.
    Jozef, I told him, I can’t see how a man who climbs mountains can be afraid of a woman.
    His face clouded. On a mountain, I know what I’m doing.
    I kissed him. Our kiss didn’t last long, but it could have; the moment I moved to him I saw his eyes soften, and I knew he would kiss me for as long as I let him, that he didn’t want to be shy anymore. I put my hands on his chest and was shocked at the feel of him. Even muscular men have a bit of softness. Jozef didn’t; under his shirt was warm stone.
    Show me something, I said. Show me how you climb.
    He blushed. I don’t practice in front of people. My brother, but not—
    Not a girl? I said, still giddy from the kiss. Well, this is your punishment for keeping a secret. You owe me another one.
    I’m not dressed for it, he said. This is my nice shirt and pants.
    He meant it honestly enough, and I laughed. I went to him and unbuttoned his shirt and slid it from him. His eyes went wide, but he did not stop me. His chest and arms were almost frightening. They still are. His muscles are so distinct, he sometimes looks like a man without skin. I touched his shoulders and he shivered.
    He was very rare, I thought, and maybe then I fell in love with him.
    You can unbutton your own trousers, I said to him.
    I’ll change in the bathroom.
    A few minutes later, dressed only in spandex shorts, he climbed for me. He climbed a wall in two or three quick moves, his arms lifting him like he weighed nothing, like all that muscle was only a shell filled with feathers.
    The ceiling, I said, when he was on the ground again.
    He wasn’t even flushed.
    All right, he said. But you have to keep the mattress under me.
    He climbed from the lowest part of the ceiling to the highest, his back rippling near the level of my chin. I scooted the mattress along with my foot. And I could not take my eyes from him. Watching him was like seeing pornography; his movements were strangely intimate. The muscles in his neck and face strained. He made small grunts and moans. A bright lamp in the corner threw odd shadows, and